He tries to sit still. But as she winds her way further into the maze of abstraction – with such clarity that he can almost see the thread of her thoughts – a scum of nausea washes into the back of his throat. He knows where this game is going; and it’s not because he knows Magister Dryden. It’s changed – sea-changed – but it can’t be coincidence. He remembers leaning over to Carfax and saying, ‘It’s overwhelming. You need to pull it back,’ and Carfax retorting, ‘Yes, well, storms often are.’ She’s edited it, but it’s the same grand jeu.
She’s stolen it.
He opens his programme. He’s clumsy, and Andersen shoots him a dirty look as the pages flap. Other people turn to look as he flips forward – it’s bad form, but he doesn’t care – to the middle movement, then, fumbling, to the dénouement and the conclusure. He has to blink to focus. He wants to be wrong. But he isn’t. It’s been transformed, but the bones of the grand jeu are the same, even down to his own suggestions. Those are pearls that were his eyes … I’ll drown my book … He shuts the programme harder than he means to, and the sound is as loud as a single clap. Magister Dryden doesn’t falter, but she heard. Another flush creeps over her face, like the sun shining through a single red window. Her gaze slides towards him and away, without settling. No wonder she didn’t want him here. The one person who might realise that she’s cheated.
How dare she? It should be Carfax standing here, performing that game. She has no right …
He swallows. He can’t do this. He digs his nails into the back of his neck, but he can’t make the pain last; it burns and fades, and even when he adjusts his grip and tries again, it blurs into a single hot ache. He must look like a madman, clutching his own vertebrae as if he’s afraid his head will fall off. He lowers his hand and knots his fingers in his lap. Magister Dryden glides into a graceful transition. Behind her, in his line of vision, even Dettler is sitting up straighter. She has them hanging on her every gesture: even if they still don’t think a woman should be Magister Ludi, they can’t look away. She’ll triumph. With Carfax’s game.
Breathe. He shuts his eyes and tries to think of something else. He shoves images into his mind’s eye like magic lantern slides: his old flat in town, Chryseïs asleep in pale sheets, Mim’s garden, the railway station, the top of the Square Tower under winter stars … But they flicker, insubstantial. If things had been different, it would have been Carfax in the terra. Unless it was Léo himself. In that other life, one of them would be Magister Ludi, one Magister Scholarium: which way round wouldn’t have mattered. They might have written the games together. One of them would be standing there, in command of the space.
Instead, Magister Dryden has taken – plagiarised … How dare she? It’s more Léo’s game than hers: all right, she’s edited it, but he was there when Carfax wrote it, he affected the direction it took, if it hadn’t been for him—
If it hadn’t been for him, the Tempest would have been handed in ten years ago, and she couldn’t have used it, and Carfax would still be—
There’s a murmur. He doesn’t remember standing up, but he’s on his feet, his heart pounding so hard he can hardly see. He opens his mouth.
Magister Dryden has frozen. Slowly she lowers her arm.
He can’t speak. Everything above his heart feels like stone. It’s appalling, suddenly, that no one else in the hall understands: he shouldn’t have to say it aloud. But his silence can’t go on for ever. They’ll think he’s a lunatic, or that he’s been taken ill. In the corner of his eye he catches a grey-clad servant already scuttling towards him to catch him, waving frantically to a colleague. He clears his throat and he’s horrified by how it’s the only sound in the room.
Magister Dryden is still staring at him. Of course she is, he’s interrupted the Midsummer Game. But her expression is unreadable; if she’s shocked, she’s hiding it well. The high colour is still in her cheeks, but her eyes are very steady.
He steps forward, once and then again. His shoes are on the brink of the silver edge of the terra, but he can’t cross it. He hesitates. Magister Dryden tilts her head, very slightly. It’s as if she’s giving him permission to speak; but that’s absurd, if she knew what he wanted to say …
And then she makes the gesture of conjuration, inviting him into the space.
For an instant the air seems to thicken. She straightens, and there’s a gleam in her eye, a tension at the corner of her mouth. Daring him. Is she serious? He can’t believe it; an incredulous part of him wants to laugh. What would happen if he took the challenge? When was the last time anyone here even saw an adversarial game? And yet somehow he knows that it would work, that he could trust her to spin and deflect and mirror his own moves back to him, like a dance, like a duel, that between them they would play a dazzling, brilliant Midsummer Game.
All he has to do is perform the assauture. He feels the possibility of it singing in his backbone and in his shoulder blades. And if he did …
She reaches out: it’s not a grand jeu gesture, but a human one. She sees him glance from her hand back to her face. There’s something naked about her expression, as if they’re alone. Is she pleading with him not to expose her? No, it isn’t that. It’s level, intense, the look of an equal, but … what is it? He blinks. He can’t stand still for ever, but something is making him feel unsteady, eroding the ground under his feet … She looks so like Carfax – she is so like Carfax – that he’s afraid he won’t be able to speak, after all. Coward. Now is the moment to shame her, if he wants to.
She’s so like Carfax. She even plays the grand jeu the way Carfax did. What wouldn’t he give to see Carfax standing there, with the same steady eyes, the same elegance, the same hand beckoning …?
He catches his breath. A sickening note sings in his ears: the whole world has turned hollow, is going to break. He staggers. Distantly a servant murmurs, ‘Sir? May I …?’ but he jerks his arm away, unable to take his gaze away from her face. That pale bony face, the grey-green eyes, the curl of hair that’s escaped from her cap, the tiny scar below her ear. Unmistakably a woman’s face – but … It’s so familiar. The face he’s dreamt about for years. Seen in his nightmares, underlined by the great gory grin of a cut throat. No. It’s crazy. He’s crazy. His sleepless night is catching up with him.
But that conjuration … that invitation. No, he isn’t crazy.
He says, choking a little, ‘Aimé?’
Silence. He doesn’t look away from her, but somehow he knows that the audience’s attention has reverted from him to her, as if it’s her turn to move.
She holds his gaze for what seems like a lifetime. Her mouth is a little open, her cheeks slapped-red.
Then she swings round and strides out of the Great Hall, crossing the line of the terra without ceremony, as if it’s a mere crack in the stones.
33: the Magister Ludi
She walks blindly, empty of any thought except the need to get away. She can’t think about what has happened; all she cares about is putting distance between herself and Martin and the other open mouths, the hungry eyes. Suddenly black clouds boil up around her knees and sweep towards her from the far corners of the corridor. She has to stop and bow her head. A moment ago she was calm, but now she is breathing hard and drenched in sweat. Will they send someone after her? She glances over her shoulder – blinking away the billowing blackness – and sees movement in the doorway of the Great Hall. She sets off again, breaking into an ungainly, panicky run; behind her there are footsteps. A man’s voice calls, ‘Wait! Magister!’